


Solitude & Other Open Wounds

by SofterSoftest



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Bloodplay, Branding, Breathplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Knifeplay, cigarplay, it was getting too long so I had to split it into two chapters ya feel?, please mind the tags, taking ash, this thing will be nasty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofterSoftest/pseuds/SofterSoftest
Summary: Before Olaf had stolen her away, she was prim and quiet and smart. Composed. Nothing at all like the creature she feels herself to be now - merciless, shattered, possessive, her focus on only Olaf and how best to please him. // A closed door leaves Violet hurt and confused on the floor of their swanky hotel room. Her continued isolation causes a destructive internal spiral. Violaf.Mentions of breathplay, bloodplay, knifeplay, branding, and cigarplay/taking ash. Dead dove: do not eat.
Relationships: Violet Baudelaire/Count Olaf
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. ONE

A closing door - 

and her nose is broken.

Through Violet’s following collapse to the cold marble tile of their hotel room entryway, she can hardly hear Olaf’s twisting key. Her pulse pounds in her ears, harsh as static through the groggy sway of her mind. Blood drips hot and steady down her face. Blends with her lipstick to smear between her teeth.

“I _said_ \- ” comes Olaf’s voice from the hall, distant through the heavy door. There’s an acidity to his tone that invites no arguments, that demands only endless, gracious servitude. “ _Stay here!_ ”

Violet stares unseeing to the floor. Cupped loosely against her nose, her hands tremble with rage and shock. Blood drips down her forearms and onto her lap, staining her pretty evening dress. It sinks into the peachy, silky fabric and spreads between glimmering glass beads. Surrounded by the extravagance of their five-star hideout, she is a picture of ruination - sitting slumped in her expensive cocktail dress, long hair curled into perfection, while her busted nose gushes enough blood to ruin it all.

With a shuffle of his shoes, she hears Olaf start towards the elevators. Violet closes her eyes, picturing this - his back in his white suit jacket, taut at the shoulders, shrinking with distance. Golden light from the numerous overhead chandeliers speckling his hair. Hair that she had lovingly slicked back only minutes ago, dragging the comb into dapper waves.

(“Dreamy,” she had said on a girly sigh, stepping back to examine him. He sat shirtless against the rim of their bathtub, dressed only in his straight black trousers and shiny shoes. “No one will even _consider_ refusing an order from you tonight.”

Olaf had snorted, passing his fingertips carefully over her handiwork. “No one should consider it in the first place.”)

Violet carefully peels her sticky hands from her face, examining the bright fluid settling into the lines of her palms. Glancing up, she can see where she had collided with the door - a dent mars the wood, followed by a spray of blood below.

Legs wobbling, she uses her wet hands to push herself up. It’s slightly indulgent, seeing the red streaks on the pale marble, and gives her some satisfaction in making such a gory mess. She wipes her hands across the tiles lingeringly, then stands with a sigh to examine the dent.

She hadn’t expected Olaf to slam the door.

In her mind, she had expected to follow him into the hall despite his refusal, to twirl in her glitzy new dress, to cast him a look from under her lashes and say, _“I don’t care what that note said. You got me dressed up. Let’s show me off.”_

It had worked plenty of times before - times when Violet grew bored of changing hotel rooms with bustling staff and endless skylines and too much television. (She would almost prefer to be on the road, packed into the car, her bare feet out the window even in the icy weather as Olaf cranked the heat and the radio while they passed a bag of greasy fast food between them. Then, at least, they were together.) 

Usually, Olaf would roll his eyes and usher her into the hall, murmuring fond, exasperated complaints. _“I never should have kidnapped you, Baudelaire. You’re more trouble than you’re worth. Lucky for you, I know a way to pay your debts...”_

Other times, he would hold his ground. Rejecting any reasoning from her, no matter how clever. On nights like this, where his refusal was absolute, he would almost always return in the early morning hours, blood spatters on his clothes, his knuckles split, bruises dusting his body like clinging shadows. 

Without looking, Violet would know that somewhere far away, smoke fills a seamless horizon. 

_Business_ , he answers before she can ask. The only clues he ever offers are indirect - flipping channels on their large, loud television until he finds the local news. A burning building would be pictured - an orphanage, a carnival, a cattle farm, a horseradish factory - and inevitably, Olaf would stay awake to watch the updates roll in, snickering every time a reporter dared suspect _arson_. 

_“I can handle it,”_ she promises each time he returns to her bloody and she is left to patch him up. _“Whatever you’re doing, whatever these fires are about, I can help. I promise, Olaf, just let me - ”_

Every time, he refuses.

It is in moments like these - Olaf leaving her cocooned in their hotel room, returning to her covered in injuries, vague excuses falling from his crooked, victorious grin - that Violet feels her powerlessness acutely. 

She frowns as she rubs her thumb over the dent, smooth and deep as a worry stone. Her hand drifts lower, over the dried spatter, to rest against the long handle. Even from glancing at the lock, she knows she could open it. Despite her appearance, she could slip downstairs and seek the largest gathering of shifty-eyed associates whispering secrets over grand, swooping ballroom music. Could nestle herself against Olaf’s side, pressing her ruined face into the crisp white fabric of his jacket. 

The option flits through Violet’s mind with a desperate, affectionate punch of her heart, yet it is quickly discarded. 

Last time she had done that, he had marched her back to their room and left her with a bodyguard, the scrawniest man of his Troupe. This had offended her more than she could adequately explain.

 _“I don’t need a babysitter!”_ Violet had hissed, only to be rebuffed by Olaf’s sarcastic, threatening, _“Oh, but you earned it! Cozy up, kid. Who knows when I’ll be back.”_

She didn’t want another guard. Truly, she didn’t even want Olaf upset with her. Her broken nose had been her own fault. She trusts - hopes - that he has a good reason for keeping her away. 

This thought in her mind, Violet releases the handle. 

Her nose throbs as she sighs, feeling hot and swollen. The blood has started to cool, drying tacky to her skin. It sticks against her throat as she turns her head, examining the room.

Their pristine bed consumes most of the space. White pillows, white sheets, white comforters and quilts and heaps of blankets. The walls are painted soft blue and are speckled with monochrome portraits of landscapes and odd architecture. Besides the blood, the air smells pure and impersonal.

Violet takes a few hesitant steps, unsure of herself. She starts towards the single window at the back of the room, wondering if her dreary view into the parking lot might clear her mind, when a flicker of motion catches her eye.

She turns, coming face to face with her own reflection.

“Oh, you poor girl,” she murmurs to the mirror. The gilded frame is narrow, hanging slightly crooked on the wall, artfully tarnished to appear older than it is. Violet steps close to it, examining the blood drying brown upon her face. 

Feeling useless and with growing distress, she licks her lips, ignoring the sting, and dips her fingers into her mouth. Grinning, she smears the blood across her face - all the way up and into her ears, over her nose, and down the long column of her throat. 

In the mirror, she looks like a stranger to herself - almost as much of a stranger as she feels. As if her reflection finally matches her disgraced internal self. Her head spins as the blood dries yet again. With each thrum of her racing heart, Violet feels evermore devilish and ruthless. 

Before Olaf had stolen her away, she was prim and quiet and smart. Composed. Nothing at all like the creature she feels herself to be now - merciless, shattered, possessive, her focus on only Olaf and how best to please him.

In her voice, she hears the disappointment and shame of everyone she has left behind. “Sad, sad Violet Baudelaire.”

That crackling energy sings within her body as she steps away and glances wildly around the room, finding it too pristine. 

Too pure.

Too good.

Her hands itch with ruination.

Hours pass. 


	2. TWO

  
  


Violet has just taken their very last pillow between her teeth when Olaf opens the door. 

She does not hear him enter over the popping of threads and tearing of fabric as gauzy lumps of down feathers tumble from her mouth. When she drops the ruined pillow to the floor, she is pleased to see it smeared with the wet red of her lipstick. The motion kicks up the rest of the fallen feathers, scattered like heavy snowfall around the room.

She turns with a twirl, intent on opening the window to the mid-autumn wind, when she notices Olaf standing in the doorway. 

Violet stills when she sees him. As always, a hot bloom of affection swells in her chest at his return. His presence soothes the chaos in her, gives it direction and purpose.

He looks much the same as when he had left their hotel room several hours earlier - dressed in that crisp white suit that always seems to beckon her hands, his hair slicked back and dark with gel - yet there is one new accessory Violet notices immediately, held loosely between two fingers. A skinny cigar, black as filth, burns softly at his side. Thin strings of smoke float from its ragged end as the feathers filter down.

“So,” Olaf says, voice flat as he takes in the wreckage. “You threw a fit.”

His eyes pass appraisingly around the room. He takes in the broken glass on the floor, proof of their ruined minibar and the three upended bottles of wine staining their bedclothes. He presses a thumb to a spot on the wall, smearing a heart scribbled in lipstick. Violet had covered the room like a schoolgirl’s notebook - cluttered with hearts and kiss prints and their initials in various forms.

He steps further inside, heedless of her mess. Glass crunches beneath his shoes. 

“V and O,” Olaf reads. “O plus V. Violet plus Olaf equals…” He frowns at her equation, confused. “How would you say that?  _ Violaf _ ?”

“Sure,” Violet stands frozen by their bed, grinning up at him. “However you like.”

They reach for one another at the same time - his free hand going for the ruined strap of her dress, fingering the frayed end. Her hands snag his bowtie, sleek black silk that she always likes to touch. Violet runs her fingertips over it, noticing with distant surprise that large globs of blood have dried brown beneath her nails. 

Olaf hums in displeasure. “And you broke your new dress. What did you do? Gnaw this?”

“Yes,” Violet answers. She is sure that shards of shattered glass linger between her teeth, waiting for one wrong word to shred her tongue.

“I went like this.” Releasing the bowtie, she curls her shoulder close to her jaw and tugs the strap into her mouth, still damp. Gently, she closes her teeth around it and tilts her chin towards him, miming great force. It falls from her tongue to slap against her chest. “It broke and the beads went  _ everywhere _ . I think I swallowed some too.”

“Alright... And, uh,” Olaf murmurs, fingers digging into her cheeks, his palm upturned at her chin. He takes a shallow pull from his cigar and exhales the smoke into her face as he speaks. “What’s up with your lipstick?”

“What’s wrong with it?” She rasps through the grind of his fingers.

With his exhaled smoke curling into her open mouth, she can finally taste it. Usually, each of his cigars smell the same as the last - moss-rotten wood and ash. This time it is spicy, and tart as fresh leather. Knowing what will surely follow makes Violet shiver in excitement, goosebumps prickling to the ends of her body. 

Arousal begins its slow burn in the pit of her stomach. (Like a garbage fire, she thinks. Enough to dizzy her with fumes.)

Olaf doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns her face towards the mirror.

She grins when she takes in her appearance. Loose feathers dust the crown of her head and her hair hangs long and snarled down her back. Her curls, so carefully crafted earlier in the evening, have nearly all fallen out. Olaf’s gifted dress still fits her fine, accentuating the deep curve of her waist while it sparkles with silvery beads. Only the single strap hangs bitten into uselessness, and the chest dips with its absence. Dried blood flakes from the fabric as she moves, revealing the grim stains underneath.

After several seconds, she finally looks herself in the eye. Greasy smears of fresh lipstick and dried blood streak her face so thoroughly she can easily spot gaps in the red where her fingers overlapped, drawing the color to a new stretch of skin.

“Oh, right,” she says with a nod, leaning closer to the mirror despite Olaf’s grip at her jaw, close enough to see the grime of red on her teeth. “Forgot about that. You slammed the door on me when I was going after you and I hit it. There’s a dent and everything. Busted my nose. I missed you.”

“And  _ that’s  _ the reason for this little show?”

“Well,” Violet amends with a coy shrug, walking her fingers down the hill of his forearm. “ _ That _ . And you didn’t take me to dinner.”

Olaf huffs, rolling his eyes. He shoves her face away and wipes the residue on his pants.

“I told you, Violet.” He speaks with mounting annoyance and brittle patience as she stumbles and finds her footing again. “The plan changed. Can you guess  _ why _ ?”

He sits to the side of the bed away from the wine stains and places the cigar between his teeth. Violet watches his fingers pick at the single button of his suit jacket, distracted. She steps forward between his knees, tugging slowly at his bowtie. Smoke drifts between them, membranous, fluid.

“Your cigar,” she mutters. “It’s new. Not one I’ve… experienced before.”

“Smart girl,” he says, plucking the cigar in question from his mouth. He rolls the glowing end against the edge of their bedside table and a chunk of ash flakes to the wood. Once the cinders are exposed, he holds it up for Violet to see. Her eyes roam its black body, stopping at the band. It sports a slip of maroon paper with a pretty woman pressed into the film.

Violet recognizes the art, yet not the smell. Not the tar-black leaves nor the light smoke that fades almost as soon as it’s exhaled. She says, puzzled, “That’s from Sir.”

“It is,” Olaf responds. “His attempt at an apology. He gave me a whole crate of these things.”

Imagining that and the private delight Olaf must have felt at receiving such a gift has her skin prickling with anticipation. “Why?”

He runs a hand atop his hair in agitation, skimming the gelled waves she had so lovingly combed into place. “You could say we got some wires crossed. He was the reason Heimlich Hospital burnt to the ground yesterday. It was supposed to be my turn.  _ Mine _ . He - ”

“But you had enemies in that hospital,” Violet counters, so shocked she forgets Olaf’s rule about never interrupting. 

Ever since he had stolen her from her bed and taken her on a long journey of hotel rooms, heists, and sleeping in abandoned cars, she had heard of his enemies rotting in their beds within Heimlich Hospital and how Olaf dreamed of finally putting them in the ground.

“I did,” he agrees, mouth quirked in a faint snarl. “And so did he.”

“Enemies like my parents?” Violet asks, unable to stop herself. Her voice is innocent and light. She feels nothing negative at the idea - no rotting of her moral conscience, no bone-deep gnaw of guilt. No familial bonds breaking. Only the throb of her nose as she breathes and the heady haze of cigar smoke in her lungs.

“Like them.” Olaf’s sharp eyes search her face for distress he will not find. “But they weren’t there, if that’s what you’re asking. No, that one will be more…” Smoke tumbles from his lips as he debates a word. “ _ Personal _ . I might even ask for your help.”

“If you need it,” she offers immediately.

He puffs on the cigar and sighs the smoke out between his clenched teeth. There’s a frustrated hunch to his shoulders, a memory of rage. “Anyway. I wasn’t sure if Sir would apologize, or how. Lucky for him, he was sorry enough at dinner. By then, I didn’t think he deserved to see you looking so beautiful. You know how he likes looking at you.”

“They all like looking at me,” she mutters, wrinkling her nose. 

“They do. But you don’t like it, Violet, do you?” His fingers brush hers where she had been absentmindedly stroking his thighs.

She drops her expression, debates her answer. Being around Olaf’s horde of associates always made her uncomfortable. Most times, she was the only woman present, and even then, Olaf enjoyed dressing her up for important meetings and making sure she had no place to hide. Loved having her sit on his lap or the arm of his chair, serving as eye candy and inspiration “while the men speak” and plan atrocities. “I know you enjoy it. That’s the best part.”

He grins, nasty, satisfied. “Oh, I do. I love to see their eyes on you, wishing you would give me up. But that’s not gonna happen, is it? It’s just past midnight now, and about four hours apart had you trashing our five-star hideout and ruining that very pretty, very expensive dress.” He pauses, giving her a chance to play bashful, but she does not take it. “The face, though. I do like what you’ve done with your makeup.”

“Thank you,” Violet says through a happy bubble of laughter. Her fingers dip between his stiff collar and the fever-hot skin of his neck. “Want to make it worse?”

Olaf chuckles, rolling his jaw so the cigar jerks between his teeth. He uses his tongue to tuck it against his stubbled cheek. “Now that you mention it, that pretty face of yours is looking a little too pink.”

“Yes,” Violet offers breathlessly. They both know with absolute certainty that it is an honest offer, strong with proof. 

Jerky with excitement, her fingers pick and fumble with the buttons of his undershirt. Undressing is always a process she loves - witnessing the slow exposure of skin, scar, and contusion, each one blossoming under fresh light like a developing photograph. With each brush of her hand, she bares more of him. Her fingers trail his collarbones and down the drop of his chest to his navel with its smattering of hair to his beltline. 

Violet grins when she parts his shirt further, revealing a thin pink scar the size of her palm. It rests towards the center of his chest, right over his heart, and even seeing it makes her stomach flutter. 

She traces a finger over the long, slightly raised initial - a  _ V  _ cut very carefully into his flesh. 

With confidence, Violet slips the switchblade from his pocket. The weight is familiar and hefty. The blade ever-sharp and gleaming. She places the flat edge above her  _ V _ , tilts it down, and softly begins to scrape away the fuzz of his chest hair.

“Want another?” 

“Only if you do,” Olaf growls, playful, light, but when she glances to his eyes, his pupils are wide with desire. 

Once the scar is fully exposed, she kisses it gently, remembering how Olaf had made her kiss that open wound as soon as she had set his switchblade aside, remembers the blood that had dripped in fat pearls down his body and between her lips.

_ “Cut me, Violet,” _ he had demanded after a brush with death, when he had returned to her exhausted and covered in burns so severe they stank, and all he had wanted was her. Her with him, always. _ “Make me yours.” _

Most people would want sweet assurances, gentle touches, and a trip to the emergency room. Olaf had wanted his blood at her feet like a sacrificial offering. 

“That’s not very fair,” Violet pouts, though she wouldn’t mind one more. “Mine’s still healing.”

“How is it?”

“Sore,” she murmurs, leaning sideways to present her left ankle. There rests the dark, crusty eye Olaf had carved into her skin nearly two weeks ago, his initials serving as the pupil. “Just like you, I’m sure.”

“I’m fine,” he says, but it’s brittle and not quite the truth. He had gotten worse about that - lying, especially to her. Especially when he didn’t want to.

“Let me see,” Violet murmurs, tugging on his shirt. “Take this thing off.”

“Then hold that for me, doll.” Olaf places the cigar in her mouth. Violet rolls it between her teeth and tucks it against her cheek as she has watched him do too many times to count. Without looking, Olaf tosses his jacket and shirt to the floor. Broken glass clashes at the impact.

As she had suspected, he is covered in bruises from his nightly schemes. Some still linger around his ribs from his tumble down the fire escape at their last hideout, night so black he hadn’t seen the rusted out steps.

Noticing her distraction, Olaf plucks the cigar from her mouth and takes a deep drag. Leaning back, shirtless, knees parted, puffing his expensive cigar, he looks smarmy and elegant and so alluring she could cry.

“Kneel.”

It is all the direction she needs. Violet gathers her dress, still dripping glass, and does as she is told.

Once her knees hit the ground, he places a heel on her shoulder and pushes until she is flat on her back, staring up at him. Between her shoulders, she feels the press of tattered feathers, itching. Slowly, with the ease of a man getting exactly what he wants, Olaf rises to stand over her. His eyes, normally dark as spilled ink, seem bright and festering with want. In the silence, he takes another puff of his cigar. The rough underside of his shoe drags across her neck.

His foot finds the flat gap between her breasts and presses. Violet knows what he wants and opens her mouth readily, tongue flat, and still he resists, patient. He presses his foot to her chest with mounting pressure until, throat rattling, she cannot breathe through the force of it. 

Reflexively, her fingers clench and curl at the floor. The primal, human urge to fight or flee thrums inside her, nearly automatic. Despite her stuttering heart, her knees stay lax. Her feet flutter but do not kick. Her dry tongue twitches and flattens against her chin. Ever up to a challenge, (and secretly, quietly, ever eager to please - ) Violet keeps her lips parted, counting internally as her mind dims and her eyes droop.

“So good,” Olaf murmurs. He backs away a pace, clearly admiring the bright red footprint left against her skin. Violet waits for further instruction as she heaves on the floor, trying to catch her breath. 

There is a dizzying rush of sensation that comes whenever he finally lets her breathe. Whether through force on her chest or neck or nose, he always knows just the best moment to lift, to step back, leaving Violet gasping while her senses - touch, arousal, awareness - return magnified by their brief absence.

“Come on, now. Between my legs.” She flips onto her knees shakily, hungrily, to find Olaf sitting as he had been before, still carefully avoiding the damp wine spot in the bed, his long legs stretched out to the floor. “Open up for me, pet.”

Again, she kneels, arms braced behind her back, and opens her mouth. Olaf pinches the spot of ash still cooling on the bedside table between two fingers. Very slowly, he drops it onto her waiting tongue and uses a thumb to smear downwards, gathering moisture, until he bypasses her mouth entirely. Violet waits, heart racing, until she feels Olaf’s finger drop down to her throat and fall away.

She closes her lips, feeling the ash dissolve instantly. Her mouth fills with a familiar flavor - smoke, spice, char. She smears it with her tongue, making sure to get her teeth, then offers Olaf a sweet smile before opening her mouth yet again.

“No more. Not tonight,” Olaf coos. He swipes his fingers over her grimy teeth, dragging it out of her mouth and across one cheek, mixing with the pink stain of her skin. He takes a moment to examine the mess, eyes reverent. “Is this what you wanted, Violet?”

“Sure,” she offers. “Anything. Just keep looking at me.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

And then, finally, he kisses her. 

Violet melts into it instantly, leaning forward to drape herself across his lap, mouth opening obscenely. Their kiss is messy and forceful - all tongue and teeth and spit. Olaf’s free hand locks around her neck to drag her ever closer. His voice rumbles wordlessly in the back of his throat. His tongue twists in her mouth, tapping against the backs of her teeth, and it is so lewd and dirty she feels her breath stop. 

When Olaf pulls away, his lips are grey with ash.

“ _ Well _ ,” he says through a satisfactory huff. “I might have to thank Sir for these cigars after all. I can really taste the  _ char _ .”

He tugs her in for another long, filthy kiss.

Even at first, it had been a little hard to miss. Olaf’s obsession with the newscasts after his wild nights out, always boasting arson. The ash that clung to his clothes and his hair and the lines around his eyes. The way he suffered through his mysterious burns and taught her how best to treat them with anything they might have on hand. Everything boasted experience.

This intense knowledge had twisted in Violet’s mind the first night she had ever taken ash from the flaking end of his cigar.

He treasured fire and destruction and ash in every other aspect of his life - especially, she learned, on the breath of his partner.

Bored of kissing, Olaf grabs a fistful of hair at the base of her neck and twists, hauling her away at arm’s length. Violet yelps, knees skidding across the floor. 

“Now. How about we play pretend for a bit, hmm? We’re going to pretend that  _ Violet  _ \- ” Olaf tightens his fingers and shakes her head for good measure as she gasps and winces. “Must pay for ruining this pretty little dress. It was very,  _ very  _ expensive you know. So expensive I’m not sure if I can show you any mercy at all. You, Violet...” Quick with practice, he snatches the open switchblade from the bed and presses it to her neck, just under her chin. The pressure alone is enough to cause discomfort, so close to splitting her skin, the press of it harder than he has ever tried before. “Must beg for your life. I took you to this hotel, got you all dressed up like a sweet little doll and  _ oh _ , I just couldn’t let you go, sugar baby honeypot.” 

His voice is a mocking sneer, as if he knows she wants more affection from him and this is all he can give - snide, hateful, bitter, cruel. There are jagged glass beads beneath her knees and her tongue is a mess of ash but Violet’s heart is racing in a way only Olaf has ever been able to coax from her. With his knife at her throat and his eyes on only her, Violet feels a gory mess of terror, obsession, and heartache rotting in the damp core of her chest. 

“Beg me to forgive you for this mess,” Olaf hisses through grit teeth. The blade twitches against her skin. “Thank me for stealing you away.” 

“ _ Okay _ ,” Violet gasps, voice high as he twists his fist in her hair yet again. “Okay, Olaf, um. Thank you for the dress. You know I loved it, I just… just wanted to  _ see you _ and be  _ next to you _ and -  _ ah _ ! Oh, but- but I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

He does not even pretend to deliberate. “No good, Violet. No good at all.”

With her neck craned, she can see where he palms himself through his trousers. His erection juts towards his hip, straining hard against the fabric, and just seeing this, teasing her with this, is enough to steal the breath from her lungs. A fresh, desperate rush of arousal makes her stomach drop.

Olaf takes a pull of his cigar, scowling. Smoke drifts from his mouth as he growls, “Prove I should still keep you. And this time, thank me for stealing you right from your bed.”

Frantic, full of shame and disappointment, Violet bypasses anymore stalling. Straining, she reaches out, drags his zipper down, and tugs his cock free. He hisses at the contact, and throbs hot in her hand when she touches him softly.

None of her usual finesse is demonstrated here. She does not tease him with her fingertips. Does not kiss the underside of him, or trail her tongue along every vein before finally taking him into her mouth. 

She skips this in her desperation, stretching against the hand in her hair to take him fully into her mouth with one quick drop of her jaw. Olaf groans, loud and low. He uses his tangled fist to keep her in place, thrusting immediately into her so hard she gags.

“Don’t think I’m too fond of you, Violet,” he spits, voice ragged. “I could throw you out… onto the street. I could give you to my troupe. Even…”

Grip as steady as ever, Olaf forces her into stillness. Violet sputters and coughs around his cock, still lodged at the back of her spasming throat. Tears bud in her eyes and she can hardly feel them at all.

“I could even kill you right now with my cock down your throat. You would bleed out so pretty for me, wouldn’t you?”

Cold dread flushes over her skin when she realizes she can feel the blade of Olaf’s knife still grazing her neck. It continues to skim the underside of her chin, across her jaw, and down her throat as she tries to force herself still. Again, Violet feels herself growing dizzy from lack of air, until even her panic seems far away.

Air and drool rush into her lungs as Olaf finally yanks her back. She coughs and chokes and even tries to gasp, “Thank - you!”

“For what, Violet?” Olaf asks, mockingly innocent.

Tears smear the lipstick, ash, and blood on her face as she sniffles. “Thank you for stealing me away. My family, they didn’t - didn’t deserve me. I’m yours, Olaf. Only yours.”

“Oh, darling. I do have plans to take you back to your family, you know. Just in case. After all, you must be awfully unhappy by my side if you threw such a big tantrum. I can’t have that, can I?” The blade taps against her teeth and Violet opens her mouth readily, feeling it drag along her tongue. The head of Olaf’s cock still nudges teasingly against her bottom lip, keeping himself stimulated. “I would want you absolutely naked and covered in marks from me. I’d give you a few more scars. Some hickeys. Some bruises. A slap mark right across that lovely face. I’d tell you to wait on all fours at your parents’ stoop. To wait for someone to answer the door so you could tell them exactly who had stolen you away and who you still belonged to.”

Violet whines despite herself. That shameful arousal has returned in such full force she can feel herself dripping as her legs tremble. Olaf smirks and rubs himself against her lip faster. The very tip of his blade scrapes deep across her front teeth.

“They… they would take you inside and clean you up. They would expect you to be just like you were. Quiet and soft. You would f-feel… like a stranger. And  _ oh _ , you would dream of me. You would dream of me every night,” he hisses breathlessly. “And I would never, ever come back for you.”

He laughs as Violet’s bottom lip trembles uncontrollably. “Please don’t,” she begs softly, even with the blade in her mouth. “Please… keep me.”

Olaf hums. The tight hold on her hair releases and he smooths the tangles gently. Dark as a tomb, his eyes examine her face with calculation. “Your nose isn’t broken, you know. I can tell. Didn’t hurt as bad as you thought it would, huh? Well… I can make you hurt, honey. Want a little gash for me, baby?”

She gets no opportunity to respond before he twists the knife. Violet shrieks as her top lip splits and immediately gushes blood, hot and sticky, down her face. Olaf moans at the feeling, thrusting his cock already coated with ash into the bloody pit of her mouth. Just as before, he is not gentle. He tosses the knife to the floor and uses both hands to fist in her hair. With each thrust, he drags his cock out at an angle so her split lip stretches and bleeds and stretches again. 

All the while, Violet strains her knees, eyes brimming with happy, pained, desirous tears.

She tries to convey this to him, to communicate her overwhelming want. She tries to speak, but what comes out is muffled by his cock.

“What was that?” Olaf asks, smirking.

“Bwease,” Violet tries again. Drool and blood drip in swaying strings down her chin. “Bwease, bwease, bwease, Owaf - ”

“Since you asked me so pretty...” He runs a hand reverently over the crown of her head and pulls back for a moment, giving her a chance to breathe as he puffs the nearly dead cigar still clenched between his teeth. “Rub yourself off on my shoe, if you can manage.”

Violet smiles through the gore and tears on her face, overwhelmed with gratitude. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice wrecked. She scoots closer and positions herself over him, placing a kiss on his bent knee and it is so, so red. “Thank - ”

“Shut up!” Olaf snaps, dragging her closer. “ _ Shut up, _ and get this cock in your mouth.  _ Yes _ , Violet. That’s it. That’s it…”

Encouraged by the overwhelming force of her need, Violet grinds against the top of his shiny shoe as she sucks him off. Her hips spasm without rhythm. Her cunt is so slick it squeals against the leather. Olaf leans back onto his elbows, eyes screwed shut, hands fisting the wine-wet sheets.

It takes Violet an embarrassingly short amount of time before she feels her orgasm cresting. She clutches Olaf’s leg, stilling on his cock through her moans as she squirms. With a single moment, the madness leaves her. In her mind she remembers her sad reflection, cast speckled and pearly in the mirror before she had ruined her face and their pretty, perfect hotel room. The image distorts and fades as she spasms, turns unimportant.

She feels more herself with every drained, rapid heartbeat.

“Think you can - just -” Olaf starts to snark before the breath rushes from his lungs as he quickly follows suit. 

Even through her melted mind and blissful, uncoiled body, she continues working him with her mouth, slowly, teasing, until Olaf growls. Much like before, he places a hand at her cheek and roughly shoves her away. 

Boneless and content, Violet melts to the floor as he stomps towards the bathroom. Beads and feathers still cling to her back. Her mouth tastes of metal and ash. A fierce throb aches at the split in her lip, already swelling.

Still, she is exhausted and entirely content. All the wild, destructive tension she had felt in her isolation has been purged, leaving only a deep chasm of calm.

Olaf returns a few minutes later holding a damp washcloth, still steaming. He rubs the blood from her chest, her throat, her face. Plucks the feathers from her hair. Scrubs the lipstick and ash from her ears and her hairline. He cleans her up, murmuring softly, still smoking the dregs of his cigar.

“You’re a little terror, Violet. Housekeeping is going to have a mess on their hands in the morning. I do love the hearts everywhere, though. You’re like a schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher. I’m touched…”

Once she is clean, and the man above her has gone quiet, Violet cracks an eye to find him analyzing her face. Light as a breath, his fingers skim the slash at her lip. “Did you really miss me so much?”

“Of course,” she murmurs. “I always do.”

She knows it was the right thing to say when Olaf kisses her very softly. 

“We’ll be on the move again tomorrow,” he says, picking at the zipper at her side. He drags it down and Violet sags with relief as the tight dress releases. 

Already dozing, she mutters, “Okay.”

Olaf scoops her into his arms and drops her unceremoniously onto the bed. The sheets squish and stick to her bare skin but she pays them no mind, turning onto her side to see him shrugging on his shirt. 

“You’re going out? Still?”

“Still.” He shakes the glass bits from his suit jacket. “Keep a window cracked. If you smell smoke, I’ll be headed back to you.”

“Alright,” Violet murmurs, sinking deeper into the bed.

Olaf approaches and kisses her cheek chastely, though she can tell his mind is already gone, already outside and running. “I’ll stitch that lip when I get back, if you let me.”

Violet runs her tongue over the gash, reveling in the sting like a gift. “We’ll see.”

He leaves her.

This time, her solitude feels earned. Not like a punishment and more like a mercy.

She leaves the television on and wakes several hours later to breaking news about a string of businesses burning all across the city. No connections. No witnesses.

It is a beautiful thing to wake up to.

She hauls herself out of bed and makes two cups of bad coffee from the minibar. She changes into a dark, inconspicuous dress, and yanks a comb through her hair. She brushes her teeth very carefully (both shocked and in love with her reflection - bruised nose and swollen mouth and puffy eyes from a range of tears), packs their things, and does not clean her messes.

When that is done, she sits on the floor of the bloodstained entryway, sipping hot coffee even through the sting of her split lip. 

The smell of smoke rushes in through the open window, sweet as a promise, while Violet - soothed, smiling, ready - waits to be collected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Just a quick note to say I'm alive and well for now and thanks to things, I have much free time. If you're in need of a story to fall into or just want to chat, you can reach me here, on tumblr (@s-softersoftest), or kofi (SofterSoftest). <3


End file.
